Troubled Thoughts
by dancingroundallalone
Summary: Blaine's sleepy thoughts in the Tina/vapo-rub scene. Fluffy-ish sick!fic and somewhat sad reaction to 4x13.


A/N: I have an inexplicable headcanon that Kurt smells like vanilla. Also, I don't own the characters.

The last image Blaine saw was that of Kurt's softly smiling face across from him as his eyes finally drifted closed amidst the asphyxiating cloud of cold medicine and stuffy sinuses. He nudged his head more comfortably into his pillow and allowed the lilt of a soothing voice to tug him gently into a deep sleep; his toes twitching as the warm weight on the bed next to him shifted.

It was funny, he thought haphazardly, that although he'd spent the entirety of the last few days waiting for his flu to clear until he could even begin to remember what noses were even used for, that right now, dozy and lethargic in the confines of his bedroom, he could swear he could smell vanilla. It was a rich, heady scent; one that he would always associate with the colour of the sky through the glass above a staircase, the barely-discernible weight of slim fingers between his own, the sound of the song he'd been meaning to sing, the taste of the coffee he'd been meaning to drink, and the feeling of ceaseless bliss that he always felt when he thought of his boyfriend.

_At least Kurt's here_, Blaine thought; fast asleep and motionless. _I'd take years of sickness and cough mixture if it were the only way he could lie here with me_.

The passage of Blaine's dream led him back to the last time Kurt had sat at his bedside; reading from all of their favourite magazines and singing gently as Blaine lay there in dreamy vigilance, rocking him out of his sobs when he finally admitted how truly betrayed and terrified he felt with that thick, black patch over his eye injury, and finally coaxing him to sleep after helping him into his pyjamas and tucking him into bed. Blaine could feel him now, sliding gentle hands over the buttons of his shirt and holding away the nightmares of eye surgery and the unshakable fear of perpetual darkness and a life in which Blaine had nothing but his fingertips and his memories to appreciate his boyfriend's face.

But of course, it had been okay in the end, just as Kurt had promised it would be as he combed his soft vanilla scent through Blaine's hair, whispered it across his forehead and held the taste against his lips.

The same taste that had haunted Blaine since the first time they had had sex; the way the sheets on his bed reminded him of Kurt's skin, the same sheets he'd fallen asleep on this time around, and the glimmer Kurt's eyes seemed to hold in every photograph in Blaine's room, all of which he'd ensured were positioned perfectly to highlight the limitlessness of their relationship.

There was a weight on Blaine's chest, and he hummed silently as it shifted; a warm cheek over the cotton of his shirt and soft hair trailing against his arm. In the depths of his sleep, Blaine felt an inexplicable urge to protest the comfort of the touch, but the narcotic power of the cold medicine held him under, and still, and oblivious.

He and Kurt were singing now. This dream was a favourite, and his unconscious mind came back to it frequently; almost every time he drifted off with his phone in his hand and Kurt's last, 'Goodnight Blaine,' still echoing in his ears. Falling asleep alone would always be the less favourable choice (not that Blaine regularly had one), now that he knew how it felt to fall asleep to the rhythm of someone else's heart and under the dependable breeze of someone else's breath, but when he had to, he always had the image of the two of them on stage to hold him out until the morning; Kurt throwing him adoring glances at every moment their eyes locked, both of them now far from nervous about the size of the crowd or the controversy of their duet as they performed together for the first time.

Another familiar dream; this time, he's sitting in an almost empty theatre, a low-lit stage in front of him and both excitement and pride trembling through his body as Kurt runs towards him; his wide grin glowing almost as much as his gold pants as he jumps up the last of the stairs and into Blaine's arms, trying desperately to control his outbursts of happiness in the presence of Madame Tibideaux, but not caring nearly enough for it to have an effect on either of them.

Still dreaming, but now with a contented smile on his face, Blaine took a deep breath, expecting that delectable scent to wash over him once again. But something was wrong, and the images began to flicker. Blaine's chest was growing colder, the cheek on his chest was unfamiliar, _wrong_, and the pleasant vanilla was replaced by a bitter menthol smell that left a prickle in the back of his throat. Blaine's head twitched, and the movement nudged the hair lying over his arm: hair that was too long and too heavy.

Blaine's dream began to fold in on itself; the light, innocent emotions suddenly becoming thicker and tighter, and replaced with confusion and an unfathomable loss which was growing all too real as the images transformed.

An unanswered call, a choking dial-tone, houses of an unknown street, the ringing of a soundless doorbell, the grin of a faceless stranger. The touch of an emotionless body and the tearing, ripping, bleeding regret, and guilt, and self-loathing, and Kurt.

Blaine opened his eyes. He was lying on his back on his bed and the sheets were the same as they always were, but they didn't smell like Kurt. The chair was beside the bed but the magazines articles had long since been committed to memory and convicted to life in an old shoebox in the closet. His shirt was open over his chest, but it wasn't his boyfriend who had taken care of him; the chicken soup and the cold medicine and the icy sharpness of the vapo-rub were brought to him by someone else; that someone who's hair was too long and who's voice was too high and who was definitely, definitely _not Kurt_. And as if that realization wasn't enough to clear the craved false reality that too often clouded Blaine's mind, he turned his head against his pillow, and the scent of his own hair products and his own fabric conditioner and his own skin greeted him alongside the image of his nightstand, where Kurt's blue eyes sparkled only in his imagination, and Kurt's smile grew only in his memories and the frozen photographs were a painful representation of the waiting that Blaine had endured ever since he had returned from his very first visit to New York city with nothing but tears and a broken heart that he could see as nothing but self-inflicted.

Blaine sniffed heavily; his chest rising. The movement roused Tina who was quick to sit up and take with her the warmth and comfort that Blaine had felt from her presence; whether it was unfamiliar or disappointing, he was quick to realize it was far from unwanted when she climbed from the bed and gathered her things. She didn't seem to pay him much attention, and Blaine hoped it was because she believed him to still be sleeping as he felt far from capable of phatic conversation in his sleep-muddled and reality-sterilized state.

But then she was gone, and Blaine couldn't taste that coffee because of course, he hadn't drank it yet. The song wasn't playing because he hadn't learnt the words. Five fingers were all he held against each palm, and the sky through the glass was grey with rain and tears and despondence.

Blaine would keep waiting; he knew that, but it was far too easy to slip back into old memories for comfort when he was ill and exhausted and deceived under the pressure of sleeping pills and a caring friend.

He closed his eyes again and this time thought of Christmas and ice skating and the promises he knew he'd never break. He thought of unexpected phone calls and good luck wishes and how he could have sworn he could smell the vanilla in the New York city air as Kurt whispered, 'I love you too,' into the phone from hundreds of miles away. They were images of soft white, and Blaine fell asleep facing the photographs that he would one day replace with ones which glimmered so much brighter; the colour of Kurt's eyes matching that of the sky through the glass above a staircase, when the sun shone and the whole room was lit with individual shards of hope.


End file.
